They left the jeep behind them next to the courthouse. The two guards
formed up. McGrath stumbled across the street and up onto the lumpy
knoll. He was pushed past the dead tree. He was pushed left until he
found the path. He followed it around behind the old building. The
rough ground bit up through the thin soles of his ruined city shoes. He
might as well have been walking barefoot.
“Faster, asshole,” Borken grunted at him.
The guards were behind him, prodding him forward with the muzzles of
their rifles. He picked up the pace and stumbled on through the woods.
He felt the blood clotting on his lip and nose. After a mile, he came
out into the clearing he recognized from the surveillance pictures. It
looked bigger. From seven miles overhead, it had looked like a neat
hole in the trees, with a tidy circle of buildings. From ground level,
it looked as big as a stadium. Rough shale on the floor of the
clearing, big wooden huts propped expertly on solid concrete piles.
“Wait here,” Borken said.
He walked away and the two guards took up station either side of
McGrath as he gazed around. He saw the communications hut, with the
phone wire and the whip antenna. He saw the other buildings. Smelled
stale institutional food coming out of the largest. Saw the farthest
hut, standing on its own. Must be their armory, he thought.
He glanced up and saw the vapor trails in the sky. The urgency of the
situation was written up there, white on blue. The planes had
abandoned their innocent east-west trawling. Their trails had
tightened into continuous circles, one just inside the other. They
were flying around and around, centered seven miles above his head. He
stared up at them and mouthed: help! He wondered if their lenses were
good enough to pick that out. Wondered if maybe Webster or Johnson or
Garber or Johnson’s gofer could lip read His best guess was: yes, and
no.
Reacher’s problem was a hell of an irony. For the first time in his
life, he wished his opponents were better shots. He was concealed in
the trees a hundred yards northwest of the courthouse. Looking down at
six sentries. They were ranged in a loose arc, to the south and east
beyond the big white building. Reacher’s rifle was trained on the
nearest man. But he wasn’t shooting. Because if he did, the six men
were going to shoot back. And they were going to miss.
Reacher was happy with an M-16 and a range of a hundred yards. He
could pretty much absolutely guarantee to hit what he wanted with that
weapon at that range. He would bet his life on it. Many times, he
had. And normally, the worse shots his opponents were, the happier
he’d be about it. But not in this situation.
He would be shooting from a northwest direction. His opponents would
be shooting back from the southeast. They would hear his shots, maybe
see some muzzle flash, they would take aim, and they would fire. And
they would miss. They would shoot high and wide. The targets on the
rifle range were mute evidence for that conclusion. There had been
some competent shooting at three and four hundred yards. The damaged
targets bore witness to that fact. But Reacher’s experience was that
guys who could shoot just about competently us at three or four hundred
yards on a range would be useless in a firefight. Lying still on a mat
and sighting in on a target in your own time was one thing. Shooting
into a noisy confused hailstorm of bullets was a very different thing.
A different thing entirely. The guy defending the missile trucks had
proved that. His salvos had been all over the place. And that was the
problem. Shooting back from the southeast, these guys’ stray rounds
were going to be all over the place, too. Up and down, left and right.
The down rounds and the left rounds were no problem. They were just
going to damage the scrubby vegetation. But the up rounds and the
right rounds were going to hit the courthouse.